I remember where I was. I remember what I was doing.
I was in my office, trying not to dwell on how much I hated HATED HATED my job, trying to concentrate on whatever research was on the agenda for that day, trying (unsuccessfully) not to be distracted by the construction of a 30-story office building across the street that was much more interesting than research. The radio was tuned to the classical music station, the music soothing my rattled nerves and feeding my pretensions.
Music interrupted for news: the Space Shuttle had blown up. Did I even know the Space Shuttle was taking off that morning? Not a chance.
I sat at my desk, paralyzed, for 45 minutes, tensely, silently pleading for an "Oops! Never mind" moment.
I've heard how people reacted to the assassination of President Kennedy with panic and tears. I felt panicky and vulnerable after September 11.
When Challenger broke apart my most pervasive feeling was of infinite sadness. Sadness for the friends and families of the people who died in the incident. Sadness for everyone who'd worked so hard on the Space Shuttle program. Sadness for myself.
I remember watching the moon landing on television. It was nearly midnight but my parents had told the babysitter we could stay up and watch. They'd gone to a party up the street; my mother had propped a vitamin bottle cap with toothpick legs on top of a ball of green cream cheese to represent the moon and the lunar excursion module.
We saw the moon landing happen in ghostly black and white. Even as a callow eight-year-old I was hypnotized. The greatness of the United States didn't occur me; I had no knowledge of Kennedy's 1960 pledge to send Americans to the moon before the end of the decade. What got to my tangled mind was the infinity of infinity -- the weightlessness of space, the endlessness of space, the impossibility of space. I tried to pin down space in my mind but everything about it seemed to generate more how how how questions: how much... how many... how long... how do they... how can...? My finite mind couldn't truly understand infinity, so I had to be satisfied with luxuriating in the otherworldliness of the moment. I knew that for the rest of my life I'd feel special because I was one of the (millions of) people who actually watched the event happen on television.
My feeling of specialness suffered a concussion that January morning. The infinite possibility of space travel and exploration was suddenly rendered finite by the failure of a rubber O ring similar to the one that keeps my blender from leaking.
There's lots of coverage this week of the 25th anniversary of the Challenger explosion. The videos will be played and replayed and rereplayed. I'm providing something else, as a respite from the true sadness of the memory of Challenger.
I remember. I wish I didn't. I wish there were nothing to remember.
What do you remember?
